


His Father's Son

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want to be your burden any more, dad.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for non-explicit mentions of canon torture relating to the episode Abyss.

“Hi, dad.”

Jack opens his eyes. Baal’s cell looks the same, although this time it’s minus Daniel, which frightens him more than he will ever admit. Minus Daniel, but now with added Charlie.

“Hi,” Jack croaks. His mouth his dry, although he doesn’t hurt anywhere else and that’s probably the only blessing he can count. He licks his lips, closes his eyes and opens them again, just to make sure that he isn’t hallucinating. Although, who the fuck knows what’s real anymore. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t.  Being revived over and over after increasingly horrific torture will do that to a man.

Jack hauls himself up to a sitting position and gets as comfortable as he can against the wall. He’s vaguely aware that his knees don’t ache. Let’s hear it for the sarcophagus. Maybe he can take it with him when he escapes from this godforsaken place. _When._ He hangs on to that, although there’s a gremlin on his shoulder that is whispering in his ear more persistently with every death, and the gremlin’s voice is starting to drown out everything else, every hope. _“You’re losing yourself. A little bit more with every death.  This will go on as long as Baal wants it to. Until there’s just a shell remaining. The husk of Jack O’Neill. Daniel’s gone. Even he’s given up. Nothing left worth saving.”_

Jack shivers. The internal monologue chills him but it’s more than that; it does feel physically colder in the cell. He fights to focus his thoughts and blinks twice. Charlie is still there, sitting where Daniel sat. He’s wearing old blue jeans that are worn at the knees – his “playing outdoors” jeans -- and his favorite Cubs T-shirt, the one Jack bought him when they went to their first game together.

“The Lovable Losers,” Jack whispers. A century of hurt; no World Series win.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “They’ll win it some day, dad. You’ve gotta have faith.”

Jack’s eyes sting with hot salt. It shatters Jack to hear Charlie parrot the words he’d said to often to Charlie when the boy threatened to support a more successful team.

Faith.

Jack lost his when a single gunshot ripped his heart and life to shreds.

From somewhere, Jack summons a smile. “Yeah, kiddo, you do.”

“That’s what Daniel’s trying to tell you.”

Jack blinks again. “You were here with Daniel?”

Charlie just looks at him, blue eyes open and honest, giving nothing away. “I can’t stay long,” he says.

Jack shakes his head.  Ghosts, ascended beings, hallucinations ... he doesn’t fucking get any of it. The only thing he understands right now is pain and death and dying.

“Jeeze. Is there anybody left who’s real?” Aside from those asshole guards who take him to Baal, throw what’s left of him in the sarcophagus  and bring him back here, again and again, ad infinitum.

“Daniel’s telling you have to have faith in yourself, dad. Like I have faith in you.”

The tears sting again. “Don’t,” Jack says, his throat clogging with years of bitter self-recrimination. “Don’t say that.”

Charlie folds his arms. It’s a quaintly old-fashioned gesture, one copied from his mom. Sara never needed words when she did that. It meant, “Don’t argue with me. Enough.”

“You’re a better man than you believe you are. You’re the best.” He smiles, then, and it’s bright and shining and full of everything that makes Charlie the fabulous, warm, sparky kid he is. Was. Charlie’s dead. Like a big piece of Jack’s heart.

“Shut up.” Jack grinds out the words. He never said them to Charlie when he was alive. He can’t stop himself from saying them now, because this hurts so fucking much and he simply cannot bear to hear the vocal expression of Charlie’s belief in him. “Stop saying ... I’m not the man either one of you wants me to be. I’m not. I let you down and now I’m letting Daniel down because I just want this to stop. I can’t do this anymore. I want to die, Charlie,” he says, and this time he lets the tears come. They slip silently down his face.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Christ, who knew a child ghost could be so calm and fucking reasonable over something that defies reason.

“Okay. Enough.” Jack sniffs and wipes his nose on the sleeve of the god-awful brown tunic he’s wearing. It’s not like it will ruin it. Those blood stains have already done that. They’ll never come out. Not to mention the holes pierced by the knives ...

“Concentrate, dad.  The sarcophagus is making your mind all fuzzy.”

“No change there, then.”

“You’re my dad. You’re great. You know pretty much everything.”

Jack laughs out loud at that. “Oh, Charlie ... that is so not true.”

“You mended my bike.”

“Your mom did that, actually.”

“You practically did that math project for me.”

“Did not. Well, not without the use of fingers and toes anyway.”

“And you made _amazing_ tacos.”

Jack smiles.  “Still do, Charlie.”

Charlie shoves his hands under his thighs and swings his legs. “I really wish you’d stop blaming yourself for what happened to me.”

Oh, god. The number of times Jack’s had this conversation; with himself, with the few friends who dared go there; with Sara. At first, Sara _did_ blame him, although not as much as Jack blamed himself. Then Sara stopped blaming him, and that made Jack blame himself all the more. He’s never been able to stand her forgiveness.

“I left the gun drawer unlocked,” Jack says, dully, the way he’s said it to himself a thousand times.

“I took the gun out of the drawer.”

“I should have known better.”

“So should I.”

Jack fixes him with a disbelieving look. “You’re a kid.”

“But I’m not a _stupid_ kid, dad. You were always telling me how clever I was. Like the time I did that science experiment with the exploding lunch bag. Remember?”

Jack smiles. “Vinegar, baking soda, zip-lock bag. Boom. All over the kitchen floor.”

Charlie smiles. “Mom was cross.”

“Good experiment, though. All about water temperature and measuring amounts of soda and the size of the bag.”

“It was cool.”

“It was messy.”

“See? I was clever. So I should have figured out not to put the gun to my head.”

Jack’s stomach clenches and for one terrible second he’s afraid he’s going to vomit, which, absurdly, feels like the ultimate humiliation.

“Charlie ...” Jack says softly.

Charlie just looks at him, then jumps down from the shelf where he’s been sitting. “I don’t want to be your burden any more, dad.”

Jack looks at his son. Really looks. Everything he remembers is there  --  the uneven bangs, the tiny scar on his left hand from when he fell off the garden swing – but something deep down, something at gut level, tells him this isn’t, this _cannot_ be, Charlie. “You’re saying some awfully grown-up things for an eight-year-old. You’re not him. You’re not here at all.”

Charlie regards him steadily, gaze level, face unreadable.

Jack nods and wags a finger. “I’m conjuring up the people I love to get me through this. Like Ernest created Catherine. Like I felt I had your mom beside me when I crawled through the desert. You’re not real.”

Charlie turns his head as though he hears something. Jack listens but can hear nothing.

“I have to go,” Charlie says.

“Stay.” It’s an instinctive response. Charlie or not Charlie, he wants him here.

Charlie smiles, and it’s the most beautiful things Jack’s ever seen. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you, too.”

Jack hears them then, the heavy footsteps of the guards. It’s all about to begin again.

“Have faith, dad. No more burden and Cubs forever, right?”

“Don’t go.” It’s a desperate plea, partly driven by a fear of being alone here.

But he _is_ alone and the footsteps are growing louder, closer.

“I love you,” Jack whispers

and

then there’s only pain and screaming and tears and death

but then

the light that usually signals his return from the dead is watery, early-morning sunshine peeking through the drapes

and

the cold that pervaded the cell is now the comforting, familiar warmth of Daniel’s body spooned behind him.

“That’s a nice way to start the day,” Daniel mumbles sleepily into Jack’s hair. He snuggles closer. “Love you too, and just as soon as I’m awake I’ll show you how much.” He pushes his groin lazily against Jack’s ass.

Jack swallows. The disconnect between the dream, if that’s what it was, and the loving cocoon of his bed in the Springs is massive. His heart is pounding and he has an overwhelming desire to curl up and weep. But Daniel is there, a reassuring presence that has always anchored him. He clings to the reality of that and tries to relax fully but Daniel senses the tension.

“You alright?” he asks, reaching for Jack’s hand under the covers. Jack takes Daniel’s hand and clasps it tightly, bringing their joined hands to rest over his heart.

“Yeah.”

“Bad dream?” Daniel can feel his heart pounding. He knows Daniel won’t push for details but will offer silent understanding, if that’s what Jack wants. They both understand nightmares.

“I think ... I think I’ll go over to Winter Park later.”

It’s code for visiting Charlie and Jack knows Daniel will get that. The word “cemetery” is not one Jack can bring himself to use in the same sentence as his son’s name, even now.

Jack feels a soft kiss on his neck.

“You want some company?” Daniel asks, quietly.

“Thanks.”

Another kiss and then the bed dips and Daniel slips away in search of coffee and a shower.

Jack waits for his breathing to steady. It takes a while.

“Thanks,” he whispers again, closing his eyes and snagging a few extra precious moments of rest before Daniel returns with a mug of coffee and the day begins.

 

ends


End file.
